Uncollected Stories 2003 by Stephen King Page B

got an erection for a minute or so.
Be kind of hard to beat off under present circumstances, he thought. A
dawn-line was appearing in the eastern sky. Somewhere a bird sang.
Halston tried his hands again and got them to move an eighth of an inch
before they fell back.
Not yet. But soon.
A soft thud on the seatback beside him. Halston turned his head and
looked into the black-white face, the glowing eyes with their huge dark
pupils.
Halston spoke to it.
"I have never blown a hit once I took it on, kitty. This could be a first.
I'm getting my hands back. Five minutes, ten at most. You want my
advice? Go out the window. They're all open. Go out and take your tail
with you."
The cat stared at him.
Halston tried his hands again. They came up, trembling wildly. Half
an inch. An inch. He let them fall back limply. They slipped off his lap
and thudded to the Plymouth's seat. They glimmered there palely, like
large tropical spiders.
The cat was grinning at him.
Did I make a mistake?, he wondered confusedly. He was a creature of
hunch, and the feeling that he had made one was suddenly
overwhelming. Then the cat's body tensed, and even as it leaped,
Halston knew what it was going to do and he opened his mouth to
scream.
The cat landed on Halston's crotch, claws out, digging.
At that moment, Halston wished he had been paralyzed. The pain was
gigantic, terrible. He had never suspected that there could be such pain
in the world. The cat was a spitting coiled spring of fury, clawing at his
balls. Halston did scream, his mouth yawning open, and that was when
the cat changed direction and leaped at his face, leaped at his mouth.
And at that moment Halston knew that it was something more than a
cat. It was something possessed of a malign, murderous intent.
He caught one last glimpse of that black-and-white face below the
flattened ears, its eyes enormous and filled with lunatic hate. It had
gotten rid of the three old people and now it was going to get rid of John
Halston.
It rammed into his mouth, a furry projectile. He gagged on it. Its front
claws pinwheeled, tattering his tongue like a piece of liver. His stomach
recoiled and he vomited. The vomit ran down into his windpipe,
clogging it, and he began to choke. In this extremity, his will to survive
overcame the last of the impact paralysis. He brought his hands up
slowly to grasp the cat.
Oh my God , he thought.
The cat was forcing its way into his mouth, flattening its body,
squirming, working itself farther and farther in. He could feel his jaws
creaking wider and wider to admit it.
He reached to grab it, yank it out, destroy it...and his hands clasped
only the cat's tail.
Somehow it had gotten its entire body into his mouth. Its strange,
black-and-white face must be crammed into his very throat. A terrible
thick gagging sound came from Halston's throat, which was swelling
like a flexible length of garden hose.
His body twitched. His hands fell back into his lap and the fingers
drummed senselessly on his thighs. His eyes sheened over, then glazed.
They stared out through the Plymouth's windshield blankly at the
coming dawn.
Protruding from his open mouth was two inches of bushy tail...half
black, half white. It switched lazily back and forth.
It disappeared.
A bird cried somewhere again. Dawn came in breathless silence then,
over the frost-rimmed fields of rural Connecticut.
The farmer's name was Will Reuss. He was on his way to Placer's
Glen to get the inspection sticker renewed on his farm truck when he
saw the late-morning sun twinkle on something in the ravine beside the
road. He pulled over and saw the Plymouth lying at a drunken, canted
angle in the ditch, barbed wire tangled in its grille like a snarl of steel
knitting. He worked his way down and then sucked in his breath
sharply.
"Holy moley," he muttered to the bright November day. There was a
guy sitting bolt upright behind the wheel, eyes open and glaring emptily
into eternity. The